


She Is My Home

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Wonder Woman (Comics), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Long-Term Relationship(s), Weary Bruce, deeply in love, squishy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22575658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: "It was there, standing at the edge of their bed, that he would finally feel that he’d gotten home.Not when he came into the cave. Not when he crept up the stairs and checked all the boys or stood and felt mindful of what he’d been given. It wasn’t until he found Diana, till he laid eyes on her, that Bruce got home.She was home."
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	She Is My Home

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story. 
> 
> Long overdue in posting this, but it was written some months ago as a gift for my dear friend Arrowinthesky. HUGS.

It was different at night.

Watching the rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheets. Seeing her fingers curl into the pillowcase as she rolled and nuzzled in deeper within the folds of their bed. In the witching hour, where the ghosts dared not even break the film of peace, there were no phones to answer. No battles to win or blood to shed.

It was different in the hush of darkness, where dawn was a promise not yet fulfilled but night was still yawning into a close. 

It was the time where Bruce most often found himself contemplative. Reflective even.

After a quiet patrol, sneaking up damp staircases and through long spotless hallways, Bruce would be lost in his thoughts as he checked in on the boys. He would catch himself counting his breaths and measuring his heartbeats as he trekked deeper into the manor to the master suite. Absently running his fingers along the walls, touching gilded lampstands and crisp linen curtains.

Bruce would stop on the landing between the floors. Almost every time. Almost. And if he did stop, he would close his eyes and breathe in the scents of the manor. He would catalog the lemon oil polish and the strong tang of lily. He would grip the banister, a solid and heavy oak, just to ground himself in the present. In the now.

In that wedge of life that never stopped breathing and moving and running. He would feel the weight of a thousand mercies and wish he could always remember to be grateful. Bruce would be happy for however brief a moment, that he was alive and well. That his family was safe. And that Gotham had survived one more night.

The Bat had done his duty. At least for now.

He never turned any lights on when he came home. Bruce was too accustomed to the darkness and even if he weren’t, it would feel—unkind to do so. The darkness had already settled in for the night and was swathing the home in filmy peace. It wasn’t Bruce’s place to disrupt that peace. Nor should it be.

So, it was in the dark that he would slip into the master bedroom. It was in the dark that he would find Diana lying on her side of the bed, breath a soft brush of sound in his ears. Her bath soap— lilac—still clinging in the air. It was there, standing at the edge of their bed, that he would finally feel that he’d gotten home.

Not when he came into the cave. Not when he crept up the stairs and checked all the boys or stood and felt mindful of what he’d been given. It wasn’t until he found Diana, till he laid eyes on her, that Bruce got home.

She was home.

Home meant a great deal more to Bruce after a night spent far, far from it than it did during the daylight hours when he’d been trapped behind a desk or wasting away in a meeting.

Home was long dark hair, curled and wild against a backdrop of pearl. It was soft skin and warm lips pressing into his. It was incoherent whispers and a nearness that could only be born from years of practiced vulnerability.

It was Diana.

Bruce took his time undressing. He padded around the bedroom, finding a pair of sweatpants and a soft gray shirt—a favorite—to sleep in. Coming home from a patrol was just as ritualistic to Bruce as preparing to leave for one. He took great care of how he did it. He paid attention to the details that made the timepiece of his life keep turning.

When he finally climbed into bed, Bruce was so tired his eyelids were heavy ballast and his mind was already shutting down. Mentally, he’d been clocking out since he’d flipped off the lights in the cave.

“Bruce?”

Bruce sighed, pillowing his head on his bent elbow, “Yeah. It’s me. Go back to sleep, Di.”

“What time is it?”

He blinked at the bedside clock just visible over her shoulder, “Four twenty-eight.”

She made a humming noise as she migrated further from her side of the bed to get nearer to his side. Bruce found himself smiling when she stopped only after she was nose to nose with him. Every other part of their bodies was separated by merely an inch. But their noses were touching. Diana’s breath was a warm huff on his lips. A welcome one.

“Quiet night, then.”

“Mmm.”

“Tired?”

“Yes and no.”

She shifted, dropping her mouth to his where their lips merely touched but didn’t actively kiss. Her lips felt like flower petals brushing against his skin when she spoke. “Tell me.”

“Long night.”

“Avoiding.”

Bruce inhaled quietly, holding his breath till he couldn’t any longer. “Maybe.”

“So, tell me, Bruce,” Diana murmured, this time sounding more awake. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Bruce thought of his nightly trek through the manor. He thought of the long walk from the damp confines of the cave to the perfectly regulated temperatures of the Wayne home and felt his chest tighten inexplicably. He felt the soft bend of something—painful in his marrow that he didn’t know if he could find words to express.

“I’m getting too old for this.”

“That sentiment sounds familiar.”

“It is.”

“But?”

Bruce wound a hand in those black curls and fidgeted with a piece of it, liking the way it always seemed to have a mind of its own. Grasping onto whatever it came into contact with, though the strands of hair felt like silk. Strong but soft. Delicate but wild. Mirroring traits of the woman who wore it so well.

“But tonight, looking out over the city, smelling the brine coming off the bay I just—it was a quiet night. It was very quiet and it was probably the first night in more years than I care to count where I didn’t dread retirement.”

“And that upsets you.”

Bruce nuzzled into Diana further, bypassing her mouth in favor of getting a lungful at her neck. She always put on oils before bed. Lotion too. She’d sit on the edge of the bed, her back a long line, and hum something that she learned as a child in Themyscera. A Greek lullaby or warrior’s tribute. Something achingly sweet that always had the ability to make him stop and stare. Sometimes he’d cross the room and ruin her ministrations—kissing her back into the bedding, peeling her out of whatever nightgown she was wearing. Sometimes he’d just watch. Or simply listen as he too got ready for bed.

“I always imagined…I always thought I would hate to be done with it.”

“Being at peace is not the same as being happy, Bruce.”

Bruce hummed when Diana’s hand wandered up the nape of his neck and found the soft hair there. Her nails sent goosebumps down his arms and legs. Made his belly hollow and his breath quicken.

Made him want.

“You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t. We both know that. But it doesn’t need to be something you beat yourself up with.”

“Retirement would feel like quitting.”

“No,” she said firmly, gripping a handful of his hair to tip his eyes to her own. It was a move that was so very much Diana, it made Bruce’s mouth twitch into a smile and at the same time his eyes burn. Because he needed that. He needed her to bring things into perspective for him as she so often did.

It was too dark to make out a color. Or even a clear shape. But Bruce could see the glint of her eyes enough to know she was giving him her calm and steady look. The one that brought men to their knees and reminded them they were mere mortals who had no business arguing with the likes of Gods. “Retiring would be a gift. An honor. And you know that. Deep down, you understand it is your due. Which is why you are becoming at peace with this idea.”

Her fingers relaxed and Bruce’s eyes closed. “I’m afraid to have peace, Diana. It never lasts.”

It was a truth that had haunted him since he was just a boy, and everything had come apart at the seams. Where pearl necklaces ripped on porcelain necks and black powder burned woolen coats. Bruce had come to expect his life to lack peace above all. Especially after all his years in the JLA. When he stood in front of the mirror and had to look away from the patchwork of scars on his chest and arms and legs—he was reminded that life was ephemeral. It was tragic. And it lacked what he would always want.

Quiet. Stillness. And yes, peace.

“The words of a true cynic.”

“Do you blame me?”

She sighed, “No.”

“Every time I go out into the city and see what’s been done and what will be done, I am faced with the truth. Peace is a fairytale. One I don’t know if I can afford to believe in.”

“Would you prefer a warrior’s death? Something grotesque and brutal?”

“I—” Bruce blinked, swallowed as a sudden lump formed in his throat, “I never thought I would live as long as I have. It wasn’t part of my calculations.”

“Was I apart of these calculations?”

“You know you weren’t.”

She laughed, “And yet…”

He shook his head, “And yet.”

“You cannot punish yourself for wanting what we all want, Bruce. You are just a man.”

Bruce found such realities to be both a comfort and a curse. When he was lying bleeding and broken in the med bay it was most definitely a curse. But now, being reminded that his human frailty and limits were a simple fact of life not meant to be demonized—well—it was a dear, dear comfort. It was something he’d needed to hear.

“Am I?” Bruce whispered, finding his voice had gone hoarse with emotion.

“Yes,” Diana was smiling. He could hear it in her words, the way she formed the vowels and consonants. When her mouth captured his own, Bruce sank into the quiet of it. He felt the muscles in his neck and back release. He felt his shoulders go lax as she pressed nearer, imprinting the shape of her body into his.

It was different at night.

Making love during the day could be just as varied. Just as fast or passionate or slow and lazy. But at night, there was something outright sacred about feeling the bumps of ribs in Diana’s sides beneath the feathery light of a waning moon. Tasting scars and savoring the delicate rush of blood when a moan broke through the air. There was something utterly undoing about kissing down her stomach, memorizing the hush of breath on skin, kissing promises into pulse points. It was drugging.

Making love to Diana at night was like worship. A worship that Bruce had no intention of ever losing.

“Agápi mou,” she murmured, kissing down his neck, scraping her teeth over the tender skin that connected the neck to shoulder. He shivered, drawing her nearer, feeling the urgent press of her heart bounding into his own.

The more he touched, the more he drank up, the better he felt. It became a mad dash to consume. For them both.

To say they finished in anything short of a sweaty messy heap, would be to lie. Sex wasn’t a fix-all, nor was it as romantically perfect and clean or finessed as they portrayed in the movies. But it _was_ grounding and spiritual and carnal. For Bruce, it was needed. Like breathing. Having a pulse.

“Dikos mou,” Diana huffed into his neck, sounding out of breath and soft, “Mine.”

Bruce chuckled, running both hands down her spine to rest on her hips. She still hadn’t moved and he didn’t have any qualms with falling asleep with every inch of her naked skin pressed to his. “I needed that Di.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, “Do you believe in fairytales now, Bruce?”

“Are you in mine?”

“Of course.”

“Then yes.”

She snorted, “As long as you live, I will be here, Bruce. As long as you will have me.”

There was levity in such a statement. But Bruce could feel the very real promise within her words. He could feel the offering she meant for him to take. One of peace. One of contentment. One of a life where he was just a man. And nothing more.

The commlink on Bruce’s nightstand lit up blue.

He blinked into the now grainy light for it, reached out and immediately got his hand smacked away. “Clark can wait.”

“And if it’s an emergency?”

“It can wait.”

“Di—”

“I thought you were getting too old for this.”

Bruce hesitated, his mouth hitching up into a reluctant grin, “I guess I have a few good years left in me.”

“Ah,” Diana lifted her head, glanced at the glowing blue commlink then sighed gustily, “Then we should answer that.”

“Di—” Bruce hummed, reaching up to tuck that unruly hair behind an ear, “Thank you. For reminding me to get out of my own head. For being with me.”

“Anytime,” she yawned, then snatched the commlink off the nightstand with a speed that was enviable, “Yes?”

A pause. The narrowing of sky-blue eyes then, “We’ll be there in an hour,” she looked down at Bruce, lifted a brow then shrugged, “Make it two. We’re busy this morning.”

“We are?” Bruce murmured, amusement making him feel lighter despite not having had more than a power nap in the last twenty-four hours.

“Yes,” she disconnected the link, dropped it onto the mattress then splayed back out on top of him. “We are very, terribly, horribly busy for the next two hours and eleven minutes.”

They were very busy for three hours and thirty-three minutes. But Clark didn’t bother mentioning it.


End file.
